Cognac
by cuckoo clover
Summary: A week ago, at the word of the Germans invading Paris, the French government moved to Bordeaux out of panic. France was summoned from the trenches of the Western Front to go with them. HISTORICAL HETALIA, PTSD


_**A 2017 Secret Santa gift for Historia** **-Vitae-** **Magistras on AO3 ^^ solely AO3 only before. Heh, my family was visiting relatives in NZ during the time. They were so confused when I asked for WiFi to upload this lol**_

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A week ago, at the word of the Germans invading Paris, the French government moved to Bordeaux out of panic. France was summoned from the trenches of the Western Front to go with them.

Turned out, they had not invaded Paris after all. At present times, France sat on the porch of his Bordeaux home and watched the vineyard. He could hear his government officials talking behind him discussing about the war, but he was too consumed by memories of the Somme to notice. The way the grapevines blew in the wind and the way the sky was so blue was too troubling. It reminded him that he was hiding away from the war just a couple of miles up north.

And there was nothing that he could do about it. As a nation, it was his duty to serve for the good of his people. As a nation, he had more power than most. A figure of solid authority, centuries old, an embodiment of his people who could even influence Government authority. Yet here he was, hiding away from conflict due to an order from his boss.

While countries were to move to their new capitals, with the war going on, he was to be in Bordeaux for a week to symbolise the city as the new capital of France. In two days, he was to go back to the trenches. A shadow of fear loomed over him as he remembered what he had to face. He tried to grasp onto a small part of him, the small part of him that was grateful for being able to at least do something, but to no avail.

To serve in the war was like going to hell and back. Past battles were quicker. Just a jab of a bayonet to the head or the heart, and that was it. But this war was a game of stalemates, where men died slowly and painfully. Of disease, malnutrition, hypothermia… there was this thing called trench foot, which rotted their feet from standing too long in the cold, wet mud. He had to distract himself with another thought.

A familiar voice joined into the mix along with the voices of government officials. He rolled his eyes. He knew who that voice belonged to.

"France, there is a visitor."

As he had expected, it was England who stood in the room. Since the Entente Cordiale, their relations had been less violent, though he still couldn't help but roll his eyes at the sight of him.

He was much calmer than France had expected him to be, but he could tell that he was exhausted. Despite his clean suit, England looked worn down, especially with the sling that his right arm rested in. His eyes were bloodshot, his face was sullen and dirty, and dark eyebags hung under his eyes, which set him far apart from the neatness of France's Government officials.

He knew why. While he himself was pulled out from the trenches, England had to stay there. In fact, he was probably there this morning, pulled out and given clean clothes for this meeting. He was too tired to make any big reaction at the sight of France, but still, he persevered to continue the meeting.

The meeting flew by quickly. Words related to the war were tossed around. Apparently, they were to be stationed at Morval next week.

When the meeting ended, his Government officials walked away. France stayed and lied down onto the table.

The sound of boots clicking on the wooden floor caught his attention. He didn't even need to look back to know who it was– England.

As he had predicted, said person sat down next to him. England passed a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches not out of politeness, but clearly out of instruction, from how stiffly he passed. France took a cigarette and a match without saying another word, and England tucked the cigarette packet back into his pocket.

"So," England started nonchalantly as he looked around the room. "Having fun in paradise?"

"Not with the war going on." Francis striked the match onto the side of the matchbox and lit his cigarette.

He heard England inhale beside him before sighing in frustration and banging his head onto the table.

"Good God, I can't take any more of this bloody war. Back before the Autumn leaves fall my _arse_!"

"True."

"Ugh, I need a drink. You have whiskey?" He asked.

"No. But there's wine. Bordeaux is where the best wine is, after all."

"Fine, brandy. Burn some wine or something if there isn't any."

"I think that the word you're looking for is cognac. Also, brandy's distilled, not burnt, though you would get a Molotov cocktail if you did so." England growled in annoyance, and France smirked.

"Fine, 'cognac' then," he said in annoyance, making sure to pronounce cognac as hard and horribly as possible. France rolled his eyes as he extinguished his cigarette with the ashtray.

"Good to know that you're still cynical. I was scared that the war morphed you into a compassionate sentient or something."

Despite the Entente Cordiale, they still liked to bicker from time to time. After all, that was the basis of their whole relationship. He expected a scoff from the other. England just blinked for a while, and then sighed. A twinge of concern appeared within France. How much had the war affected _him_?

The house had previously belonged to a vintner. While the vintner's possessions were carried out, he wasn't able to take all of the wine, so there were still quite a lot of it in the cellar.

As Francis rummaged the place, he wondered if he could empty a cognac bottle and serve cheap wine to England as a joke, but he dismissed the idea as he reasoned that he couldn't bring himself to empty a bottle of good cognac.

At last, he found a cognac bottle. He retrieved the bottle quickly, and headed back with two glasses.

Something about the fully sealed bottle of the liquor made him stop and think. Liquor was enjoyed in a celebration, and thinking about drinking it now suddenly made him feel cheap. After all, flavours were to be enjoyed, but with the war going on… enjoying fine cognac in somewhere hidden while thousands were sacrificing their lives… it was just too unsettling and ignorant. Sure, they were allowed alcohol there, but they were all of poor quality used for medicine and comfort, far from the quality of this bottle of liquor.

England was still sitting at the table, and had lit a cigarette as well. The room started to smell of tobacco as smoke filled the whole place. He sat beside him and placed the cognac and the glass in front of him.

"Here. You have it, I don't want it."

After smothering the cigarette, England grabbed the bottle, and bit into the cork with his molars (how crude!). Just as France was expecting a 'pop' of the cork being pulled off from the bottle, he faced silence. England glanced at the bottle, and placed it down onto the table. For an alcoholic who chugged booze down like water, it was quite a surprise to see him reject it.

"Nevermind." There was a distant feeling of hopelessness in his voice.

France sighed. "To be honest, I feel guilty for wanting to chug down cognac while the war's going on."

"Same." It was so quiet, he thought that he had imagined it.

"That… makes it the two of us, then."

England sighed.

By now, it was dusk. The inside of the house dyed a rich peach colour. England left the table and headed upstairs to the guests' bedroom. It was then when France remembered that they had to go back to the frontlines in two days' time. He looked down at the cognac bottle that rested in his hands, and thumbed its glassy surface.

"Hey," he called out. England glanced back.

"What?"

"Maybe… we could put this somewhere and drink it after the war's finished." England raised an eyebrow.

"Well, why not take it to the Western Front with us? The liquor there's piss poor enough already."

"This is some pretty fine qualitied cognac. I want to save it for after the war's finished." He could hear England roll his eyes.

"Fine, whatever you say. Where should we put it then?"

"Well, we can't just put it back into the cellar. How about let's bury it somewhere?"

* * *

France patted the small mound of dirt with the shovel flat. In a couple of months time, grass will grow, and the patch of dirt will blend in with the surroundings.

After some negotiation, they had agreed to bury the cognac underneath a tree somewhere outside the border of the city.

"The next step would be to remember that we even did that," England muttered. Just as France was about to reply, England pulled out a Swiss army knife out of his pocket.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you _think_ I'm doing? I'm marking the tree." While they talked, England was carving an X onto the tree's bark as best as he could with his left hand. France shrugged. Fair enough.

When he finished carving, England sat down onto the grass, and France followed.

Beyond them were golden hills that shone in the late afternoon sun.

The shimmering of the grass, the setting of the sun.. was stunning to watch. Bordeaux was a beautiful city hidden in the middle of the French countryside. Even the surroundings were beautiful. He got so caught up with musings of the war that he had actually forgot about the scenery around him.

"You know, frog, it only seemed yesterday since we were kids."

"True." Oh how quickly time flew by. France started to chuckle dryly when he remembered a certain memory. "Hey. Remember Dover?" He snickered. "You'd flip me off across the channel every time. You were, what? Physically eight?" He scoffed. "No wonder you were such a barbarian child."

England snickered. "I was a hundred at the time, I was bound to learn how to flip people off, anyway. Also, barbarian? Well, guess who started the Industrial Revolution?"

"Guess who started the Age of Enlightenment that started that?"

"… Fair enough." England laid back onto the grass, and France did as well. The sky was a soft beige colour mingled in with ingo from hints of the incoming twilight.

"So. We're going back to the Western Front in two days," France started.

He didn't know why that slipped out, but it just did. Just as he expected a reply, he faced only the sound of grass rustling in the wind.

"Right."

The surroundings seemed to feel empty as soon as he said so.

"Call me a coward all you want, but… I'm scared to go back." He heard England inhale

"Honestly with all the shit that's going on there, no wonder."

It was the closest thing to a "me too" he'll get from England, but it was enough.

"Look. Erhm, we'll get through this war," England started. "We've survived longer wars, hell, we survived one longer than a century.

"To be fair, your king wanted my throne."

"… True. But that's beside the point. What I mean is that sooner or later, this war has to be over one day. Maybe… just think of it as the hundred years war but condensed into a couple of years. We'll manage."

They'll manage.

It was sort of comforting to hear that. Sure, it wasn't the best advice, but it was good.

As he lied down, he realised that he hadn't felt this relaxed in ages. Just a bit of a chat to ease his nerves and take his mind off of the war.

It was so peaceful here. France chuckled a bit when he remembered England's comment about Bordeaux.

It _was_ like paradise.


End file.
